


The Koala Conundrum

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 12:42:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean knows too much about koalas and tops the hell out of Sam. It ends well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Koala Conundrum

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Concept from a highway sign on I-93 currently reading "Winchester Hospital/Stone Zoo/Koalas Here Now."
> 
> 2\. Birthday fic for deirdre_c.

Dean wakes up knowing more about koalas than he used to.

Huh. Weird.

At first he doesn’t notice. It’s not like he habitually inventories his koala knowledge as part of his wake-up routine. And this particular waking up is accompanied by doctors shining lights into his eyes, poking his fingertips, tapping his knees with little rubber mallets, and asking trivia questions (more about the year and who’s president than about tree-dwelling fauna of Australia). So even if he wanted to do a quick koala database check, right now there are too many distractions. 

Then a door crashes open and there’s yelling and hugging and Sam. Dean thinks that the doctors might have something to say about Sam restricting his breathing. Except the doctors have scattered. Sam spooked them. The yelling was no doubt meant to convey gratitude and respect to the fine medical professionals they are, but the doctors don’t know Sam and they probably didn’t get that. 

“Can’t breathe,” Dean tells Sam. Or at least he makes roughly translatable wheezing sounds.

Sam lets go and backs off maybe four inches. He looks wrecked, and his hair is a greasy mess. Dean has figured out by now that he’s maybe been out of it for a while. At some point he’ll ask what happened. But he feels OK. Apart from the rib injury, that is, and that one’s brand new.

“I think you broke my rib,” he complains. Sam just looks dazed and relieved and unrepentant. 

That’s when a voice in the back of his brain that Dean hasn’t noticed till now informs him that it’s a myth that koalas don’t have ribs. They just have eleven pairs, not thirteen like other mammals. 

What the fuck.

As freaky things that happen to them go, though, inexplicable koala information doesn’t rank. Dean mentally waves the lesson in the fine points of koala anatomy away and concentrates on the important stuff, like making sure Sam’s been looking after the car and seeing if he can be persuaded to smuggle in a burger. 

 

Dean’s been in a coma for five weeks, he finds out. The doctors don’t know what was wrong. That isn’t surprising. They don’t get much experience with wyvern poison. They didn’t think he was going to wake up, and it looks like their no can do attitude got to Sam.

Sam should know better, Dean thinks, with the part of his brain that isn’t working on ways to leverage Sam’s maddening hovering into pie. Just look at koalas. They fucking live on poisonous leaves. They eat them for breakfast. They adapt. Their digestive systems are designed to cope with a diet of toxic fiber. And Dean is more badass than a koala. Of course he was going to survive wyvern toxin. 

Dean’s getting so used to koala data dumps by now that he barely notices them. Still, he’s starting to feel a faint prickle of unease. It only grows that afternoon, when it finally occurs to Dean to ask the nurse who’s taking his vitals what hospital he’s in.

“Winchester Hospital,” she says. Dean must be looking freaked, because the nurse gets pissy, like he insulted her possibly-an-otherworldly-hallucination institution. 

“You’ve been in good hands,” she says. “We may not be MGH, but we’re one of the best smaller hospitals in the region.”

And, yeah, OK. There is such a place as Winchester, MA. Dean knows that. They probably have a hospital. It’s not out of the bounds of the possible that Dean would end up there. It just seems a little . . . convenient. 

And then there’s the koala stuff.

Maybe, Dean thinks, he’s been on some spiritual journey. Could be the koala is his spirit animal. He’s been getting to know his inner koala. If so, he will never tell Sam. Sam does not need to know that Dean’s spirit animal is a cuddly teddy bear.

Koalas are not bears, the possibly-supernatural-in-origin-and-hella-sinister wikipedia in his brain reminds him. They are marsupials whose closest relative is the wombat. And despite their reputation for cuteness, their teeth and claws are sharp. 

Dean mentally gives his inner koala the finger. His point holds.

In another four days they let him out of the maybe imaginary hospital and him and Sam drive away. Dean peers suspiciously at the Winchester Hospital sign, the brick and glass buildings solid in the rearview mirror. They look real enough. The koala voice in the back of his brain is silent.

 

The first time they have sex after the hospital-that’s-maybe-all-in-Dean’s-head is, like, six weeks later. That is not Dean’s idea. How long can it take, after all, to recover from a coma? Especially when Dean’s not even sure there was a coma, what with the suspicious Winchester Hospital thing. And the koala stuff. How long can it take to recover from an imaginary coma? 

But Sam’s adamant that they have to be careful. He kisses Dean a few times, and once or twice he gets carried away, lets his huge hands wander, begins to crowd Dean against the wall or the bed or the car, whatever’s nearest. But just as Dean’s pulse starts to speed up, just as he’s angling his hips, welcoming Sam against him, just as he’s getting hard, every time, Sam breaks it off. It’s fucking maddening. Sam works out every day (they’re not back to hunting yet because Sam still thinks Dean’s fucking delicate), he works out every day, muscles straining as he does pull-ups in the Men of Letters retro gym, and he can see Dean watching. He fucking knows Dean is watching. Dean can see the conscious flush pour down Sam’s chest, and that’s not the workout, it’s not a side effect of Sam’s fucking exercise routine. Sam wears sweatpants when he works out but Dean can see the cloth tenting. But Sam won’t put any of that mass and sweat to use, not where it matters.

And then, then, when he finally decides it’s medically advisable or what the fuck ever to fuck Dean again, he’s fucking _judicious_.

Now, Sam’s excessive size may be a questionable life decision, but Dean has never denied that it has its advantages. Dean has no objection, none, to being manhandled, wall-sexed, or fucked through the mattress by a ton or so of solid, sweaty Sam. After all, he’s put years of effort into the care and feeding of Sams. It’s only fair he should reap the benefits. That’s fun, toppy _grrr_ Sam, and he’s Dean’s. He’s equal parts hot and, well, kind of endearing. He’s just so damn serious about it all. Sometimes Dean’s right in the middle of being tossed on the bed like a sack of sexy potatoes and bitten, Sam crowding over him all flushed and hard as nails and Dean’s into it, oh, God, yes, he’s into it, but he still wants to laugh, because _Sam_. Sam’s hair always gets in his eyes, always. He’s trying to nail Dean like some kind of sex god, which he kind of is, but he can’t see, because his fucking stupid hair gets in his eyes. It’s hard not to laugh. Dean is a man of tact, though, so he only ever mentions the _hot_ part. 

But he cannot stand it, he absolutely cannot stand it, when Sam goes into judicious mode. That’s every bit of Sam Dean likes least, fucking prissy ass, doling out sex like it’s something that gets decided by Sam’s oh-so-superior judgment. Like he’s somehow above it all, hardly even attached to his own dick. It’s been six weeks, probably to the exact fucking day, and Sam has decided that’s the magic number where they get to have sex. He’s opening Dean carefully, like he’s measured it in micro-millimeters, what Dean’s allowed to want to take. He’s got this little frown of concentration. It’s about the least sexy thing in the world. 

Dean’s had enough.

Here’s the thing about koalas. They bellow in mating season because it broadcasts their size. The bigger the guy koala, the deeper its voice, the better. It’s pretty amazing, actually. Koalas, in absolute terms, aren’t that fucking big. But their voices have the resonance of a bison. It’s something about their larynx. Dean knows this. 

With Dean and Sam things are more complicated. Things get complex between them. Sam is larger, but Dean has a deeper voice.

“Sam,” Dean says. He puts the resonance into it and Sam stops, fingers going still where they’re buried fucking carefully in Dean’s ass.

“Do you want to wait?” says Sam. “We can wait. We don’t have to do this tonight. I mean, it’s only been six weeks. You were in a coma. I get it.” He’s all concern. Tonight, tomorrow night, next week, maybe take off for a few years and have a house and a girl and a dog, it doesn’t make a difference to Sam. It’s all one to him. Or so he maybe thinks. Dean will see about that. 

“No,” he says. Resonant. “No, I don’t want to wait. _Sammy_.”

Koalas mark their territory. They have chest glands, they rub against trees. Dean doesn’t have to bother with any of that tree shit. Sam’s larger, but Dean has a deeper voice. “Sammy,” he says again in Sam’s ear, tongue touching the bitter whorls, and his voice is as rough and deep as he can make it. Sam’s starting to get the message. His fingers withdraw from Dean’s ass. Dean likes getting fucked, yeah, he likes it, but he’s sure as hell not feeling any loss tonight. He rolls them over. Sam’s underneath now. Dean can hear him panting, deep and quick, like a dog. He rubs his chest against Sam’s. Sam gives a breathy moan, nipples hard against Dean, head turning to one side so the tendons and muscle of his neck and the beat of his pulse are exposed. He’s pink, he’s fucking pink. Toppy _grr_ Sam blushes like a rose, he blushes like a fucking rose, when he’s getting ready to take it up the ass. He’s not so much now with “the doctors said no strenuous activity for at least six weeks” and “we can wait.” Sam gets all toppy and he’s into it and Dean’s into it and it’s great, most of the time. Dean likes getting fucked. But though Sam may be bigger, Dean has the deeper voice. Sometimes Sam needs reminding. 

Dean bites over the exposed tendons of Sam’s neck and his beating pulse, faster, faster, while Sam breathes hard, and across his chest, the tight nubs of his nipples and the slick salt heat of his sweat. Sometimes Sam needs reminding. Koalas may look cuddly, but they have sharp fucking teeth. Sam keens, a high, hurt sound, and he’s spreading his legs wide, drawing them up, he’s begging, hair clinging round his face in sweaty strands, and Dean can see the dusky pink crinkle of his hole and so much for “we should be careful.” Dean grabs the lube where Sam dropped it on the bed, when he was supposedly being all fucking careful, and he growls in Sam’s ear, resonant, as his fingers breach Sam, fuck it, two at once. Sam goes fucking wild. 

Dean has his nose in it, the rich, sour smell of Sam’s ass, of his balls, while his fingers scissor Sam open. Sharp and strong, this is no time for being fucking careful. But Dean’s still taking his time. Sam’s legs are peddling like he’s riding a fucking bicycle, he’s squealing like brakes that need oiling, Sam’s wishing he could ride Dean, be in control, Dean knows that, Sam’s wishing he could ride Dean hard, like Dean is his fucking bicycle. But Sam’s got to wait. Sam will get Dean’s dick when Dean’s good and ready. Sam’s been ready for a while now, for all his fucking “we’ve got to be careful” shit, he’s been ready, but sometimes Sam needs reminding. Koalas are territorial. They’ve got glands in their chest. Sam may be larger, but Dean’s voice is deeper. Dean rubs his nipples, hard enough to cut glass, against the soft skin of Sam’s thighs, and the sound Sam makes is softer now, more like a whimper, wanting, like Sam’s figured it out, that he gets what he needs when Dean fucking gives it. Yearning, Dean might even say, if Dean were waxing poetic. 

Dean does not wax poetic. That’s not something Dean does. He pulls himself up over Sam, a slow drag where Sam’s underneath him, a smell of sweat, all Sam’s pores open for Dean, the deep bellows of his breath when Dean’s nipples scrape hard over his skin. Koalas are territorial, Sam’s big, but it’s Dean has the voice. He doesn’t even have a name now, just a humming growl in his chest, a resonance, and he’s crowding Sam down, pressing in so that Sam feels it, so Sam feels it through every inch of his lungs and his ribcage as Dean sinks in, as Dean fucks into him, fucks him down. 

Dean is caught a rhythm with Sam’s dragging breaths, with his own deep growls in Sam’s ear, and he fucks in time with it. He bites where he finds Sam’s flesh and Sam’s legs wrap higher around him and his head tilts back, neck and chest exposed, flushed, and Dean thrusts deeper and deeper. There’s heat hammering at Dean’s spine. He drives it into Sam. Sam is silent now, just the rich smell of sweat, because even moaning takes breath and Dean’s not leaving Sam breath. Dean is growling for both of them, though, his mouth over Sam’s, his body in Sam’s. Resonant. Heat breaks through Dean in a bass vibration, spreads into Sam’s body like a solar flare. Sam’s bright, high cry shatters against Dean’s deeper note. Sticky warmth spreads up Dean’s chest where Sam surrendered, came. Dean rubs against it. Koalas are territorial. Sam’s legs wrap higher as Sam’s body shakes around him. “Sammy,” says Dean.

“Guess you’re feeling better,” Sam says later. It’s been a few minutes. Maybe a few hours, because, yes, Dean is that awesome. Sam sounds like he’s trying for sarcastic, but he doesn’t have the breath for it, still, even if it has been hours. There’s a small, sated smile on Sam’s face, whether Sam wants it there or not. Dean can see it. It tells Dean everything he needs to know. 

Gotcha, Sammy.

“Guess I am,” says Dean, and he kisses Sam, sealing his mouth. Gentle, but making sure Sam gets to breathe when Dean fucking says so. Dean doesn’t even need to go for smug. Sam’s own fucked out body, the heavy sprawl of his limbs, pupils huge and lazy still with lust, they’re saying everything Dean might want to say for him. 

Dean breaks the kiss, his choice, watching Sam’s face. Swipes his hand down Sam’s chest, smearing sweat into the bite marks. Sam shuts his eyes on a shuddering sigh. 

“Sammy,” says Dean. Just once more. Koalas are territorial. Sam may be bigger, but Dean has the deeper voice. 

Dean likes being fucked, Sam can fuck him through the mattress, up against the wall, the car, a ton of sweaty Sammy, any time. Dean’s on board with it. But sometimes Sam needs reminding. Looks like Sam’s OK with that.

 

But the problem with sex, must be the chemicals flooding his brain or something, the problem with sex is that sometimes it gets Dean thinking. The koala thing. It’s not like this weird koalas-in-my-brain-maybe-we’re-in-the-matrix stuff is something Dean has some kind of obligation to confide in Sam. Even if it turns out Dean’s got some koala spirit possession thing going, the worst it’s done to Sam is get him a pretty damn awesome fuck. The fuck of a fucking lifetime, if Dean does say so himself. And going by Sam’s expression, still half-smiling and blissed out, Sam agrees with him. The koala thing’s certainly nothing Sam should be worried about. And if Dean levels with him Sam might go judicious for good. Dean won’t always have the energy to fuck it out of him.

But. But. There’s a completely unnecessary, honest part of Dean’s brain that argues that if it were Sam got himself koala possessed or cursed or whatever, if he kept quiet about it, Dean might not react well. Of course, it’s different when Sam does things. But Dean has to admit that it’s not _totally_ different. And if he does need to tell Sam what’s going on, now is a good time. Right now all the great sex advantages of the situation (if there even is a situation) will be at the forefront of Sam’s mind.

Dean clears his throat. 

“So I might have been spirit possessed,” he says, “Or cursed. By a koala bear. Or something.”

Sam lifts his head abruptly from the pillow. His eyes focus to analytic sharpness. That sure broke the mood. Just like Dean had been afraid it would. 

“You . . . what?” Sam says. He sits up. “OK,” he says, “Tell me what the hell you’re talking about. And koalas aren’t actually bears. They’re marsupials. They’re not even related to bears.”

“I know,” says Dean. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I know. I know ’cause I’m a walking encyclopedia of _phascolarctos_ fucking _cinereus_. Whose closest relative is the goddamn wombat. And I’ve got no clue where it came from. I woke up in that hospital-that-maybe-wasn’t with some voice in the back of my brain reciting koala facts. I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, but have you met us, Sam? What are the odds this isn’t some curse of the bloodthirsty koala god?” 

That’s another problem with making up his mind to tell Sam things. It makes them sound worse than they did when they were safely in Dean’s head. Sam doesn’t seem to be freaking out, though. If anything, he looks embarrassed, maybe guilty. Ha. Dean might have known that curse of the koala god would turn out to be Sam’s fault. 

“It was you, wasn’t it,” says Dean, “Sam. What did you do?” 

“You were in a coma,” says Sam.

“Yeah, I got that,” says Dean. He was in a coma in an imaginary hospital and Sam went and made some fucking deal with the arboreal teddy bear, no, excuse me, teddy fucking _marsupial_ spirits, and now Dean is cursed. 

“You were in a coma,” Sam repeats. “You were in a coma because I fucked up for a change and that damn wyvern got you. And after a couple of days the nurses started kicking me out. _Get some rest_ and _Is there someone you can call?_ and all that. There wasn’t much, right by the hospital. So I drove around a lot. There’s a zoo, the Stone Zoo.”

“And?” says Dean.

“And they have an exhibit on loan,” says Sam. “‘Down Under at Stone Zoo.’ They have koalas. I used to go there. Every day, pretty much. It was kind of peaceful. The koalas were mostly asleep.”

“And?” says Dean again. Not like he even wants to know what goddamn koala rite Sam stumbled on, but they’re going to have to deal with it.

“And they said you might hear,” says Sam. “The doctors said if I talked to you, you might hear. Coma patients do, sometimes. They said it might help. But you’ve met us, right? Not much in our lives it’s fun to talk about. So it was me.”

“What was you?” says Dean. 

“The voice in your head,” says Sam, “Koala facts. It was me. You were just lying there in that fucking bed and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do. There isn’t an antidote, not for wyvern venom. I didn’t know what to say, what to say that you might want to hear. So I guess I mostly talked about koalas.”

There’s a pause there, Sam’s breathing deep and agitated beside Dean.

“You didn’t tell me,” says Dean.

“Nothing to tell,” says Sam. “I didn’t know you heard. You were in a fucking coma and my contribution was koala trivia.”

“I seem to recall you dragging a wyvern off me with your bare hands and killing it,” says Dean. “Talking about contributions. Of course, I might have imagined that.” Just like he can imagine Sam slumped in that too small hospital chair, day after day, stubbornly talking koalas. Sam always liked those nature documentaries. The voice in the back of Dean’s mind shifts, becomes warmly familiar. “Another monster we don’t have to worry about any more. It and the bloodthirsty koala god.”

Sam’s forehead unwrinkles a bit. 

“I doubt a koala god would thirst for blood,” he says, “Just eucalyptus. You go for those gross wild cherry cough drops. You’d make a lousy chosen koala god sacrifice.”

Dean lets that one go. Snarky Sam is an improvement on guilty Sam.

“So I really was in Winchester Hospital,” he says. 

Sam looks like Dean’s crazy, which means he’s not, after all.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, of course. They offered to transfer you to MGH, or one of the other big Boston places, but it’s not like they’d have wyvern poisoning specialists at MGH, either. And, I dunno. Winchester Hospital, right? I thought maybe the name was a good omen.”

“Never pegged you as the superstitious one,” says Dean.

“Well, you did wake up,” says Sam.

Dean shoves at his shoulder.

“You’re lucky I did,” he says. “What with you reciting the fun koala facts. You bore someone _into_ a coma, Sammy, not out of one.” 

Sam’s smart, with all the koala lore and stuff. He can probably extract _thank you_ from that. He’s frowning thoughtfully, anyway, tracing Dean’s fingers with his own. This is a gesture Dean would normally object to. But Sam’s shaky right now. Plus, he did just get fucked into next week by Dean’s turns-out-there’s-a-rational-explanation-for-it inner koala. So he gets to take liberties. The koala hickies scattered over his chest and neck still look like they sting. Dean touches his lips to one, feels the dark, satisfied throb in his groin. Sam may be bigger, but Dean has the deeper voice. Turns out it was Sam told Dean that, those long weeks Dean was in a coma, for all Sam likes to fuck Dean into the wall, and for all that Dean likes that, too. They’ve got some adjusting to do, but they’ll manage.

“You know,” Sam says, breath warm and close against Dean’s palm, “Koalas are the only animals besides humans that have unique fingerprints. No two alike.”

Irreplaceable. 

“Yeah,” says Dean, “I know.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(Podfic of) The Koala Conundrum by De_Nugis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1546400) by [chemm80](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemm80/pseuds/chemm80)




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